


E lucevan le stelle {Hiatus}

by theorchardofbones



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Art Nouveau Influences, Artist!Ignis, Blind Ignis Scientia, Historical Romance, M/M, Muse!Noct, Timeskip, Turn of the Century, fin de siecle, how could I forget the angst?, period drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-13 15:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14751266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: Nine years.Nine years since Ignis last held Noctis in his arms; nine years since they said goodbye. Nine years since the accident that left Ignis blind, cutting short a promising career as an artist.It should be long enough to move on; to forget. Yet even now some smell will remind him of the sweet scent of his dear Noct's hair, of his skin, and it all comes flooding back.Ignis has resigned himself to his lot in life, scraping a meagre wage by teaching piano and violin. It's a modest existence, one far from the high life of parties and expensive liquor that he once knew, but it's all he has left — until Noctis returns to Altissia, and his entire world is turned upside-down.





	1. Prologue: Ten Years Ago / And the Stars Were Shining

They weren’t supposed to be up here, but Ignis had a feeling that silly little things like  _ rules _ never stopped Noctis Caelum.

They were sharing a bottle of imperial brandy — which, Ignis suspected, had come from the private reserve of their gracious hosts downstairs — and whenever Noctis moved from his perch at the parapet, he’d stoop down to grab the bottle and flash a glittering smile that made Ignis quite giddy.

The party had been so-so; a mere excuse to rub shoulders with the Altissian elite. When Ignis had grown tired of all the fawning over his latest artwork on display at the college of art, he’d retired to some quiet corner to people-watch.

He hadn’t expected to find a pair of ice-blue eyes watching him, too; hadn’t expected to have his breath quite expelled from his lungs when their glances met across the room. By the time he had recognised the young man as the son of Regis Caelum, one of the college’s most generous benefactors, it had been too late.

‘This place is boring,’ Noctis had said. ‘Let’s go make our own fun.’

On the rooftop now, Ignis could do little more than quietly smile to himself as he watched Noctis bring the bottle of brandy to his lips. He watched the young man’s lips part slightly, caressing the crystal brim; felt an odd sort of flutter low in his belly as he studied Noctis’s face.

‘Father says you’re quite the prodigy,’ Noctis said, handing the bottle back and returning to the parapet. ‘Everybody does. I wanna know about  _ you, _ though. Tell me what makes you tick.’

For a moment, Ignis was stumped. He’d certainly made enough chit chat that night to last a lifetime, knowing instinctively when to waffle and when to keep his answers concise, but he’d yet to be asked about himself. Everyone always saw Ignis Scientia, virtuoso of the arts; they never looked deeply enough to try to see  _ him. _

‘I’m… I’m not sure—’ he stammered, but Noctis cut him off with a grin.

‘It’s okay, Ignis,’ the young man said. ‘You don’t need to be nervous with me.’

He turned then, and slipped his legs from the parapet, crossing the rooftop. A moment later he was sitting down cross-legged at Ignis’s side, as though they were two schoolboys trespassing after curfew and not two respectable young men of society.

‘I got a feeling,’ Noctis said, leaning in candidly. ‘You and me? We can blend into that high society life when we need to, but it’s like a second-skin we’ve gotta pull on to fool everybody. I wanna know the  _ real _ you. The one underneath all that.’

Noctis had moved closer while he spoke; he tapped a finger to Ignis’s chest as he said the words  _ real you. _ It was so intimate, so precocious, and yet it made Ignis shiver and chased away all chance of conducting any sort of scholarly discussion.

That wasn’t what Noctis wanted, though. And Ignis had a feeling what Noctis  _ really _ wanted had little to do with words.

Still, he played along with the charade. Started his tale at the beginning: a humble origin in Tenebrae, born to the daughter of a merchant. He left out the parts about how his sire had wanted little to do with a bastard, or the woman — scarcely more than a girl — that he’d gotten with child. Left out that his mother had fallen foul of an illness that left her mad; that his father’s brother, taking pity, took him in as though Ignis were his own child.

He was opening his mouth to speak of his time at the school his uncle had sent him to, one that specialised in nurturing gifted minds, when Noctis leaned close and brushed a fingertip against his throat. The touch was cool against the heat of Ignis’s skin; he swallowed and felt his adam’s apple bob, and when he lifted his glance to meet Noctis’s he found the young man’s eyes filled with lust.

It was a feverish, delirious thing; at first Ignis found himself frozen, uncertain what to do, and then he melted under Noctis’s touch. They made love, these two strangers, there on the rooftop while the party went on with little care for where either of its most eligible bachelors had vanished off to.

What would the elite think, if they knew of what transpired that night? Would they shun the pair of them from high society? Would they dismiss it as a moment of madness?

Afterwards, as the stars shone above, Noctis rose to his feet with the bottle in hand. Standing there, wearing only what the gods had made him in, he lifted the brandy to his lips and drank deeply from it. He was messy and careless; drunk on life. The amber liquid poured freely down his chin and dripped down his chest, and to Ignis it was like watching some beautiful, mesmerising creature from myth — a demigod, a satyr, an incubus.

Emboldened, Ignis rose to his feet and crossed to Noctis’s side. He took the bottle from his lover’s hands and pressed their mouths together, and he could feel the brandy trickling down his own throat.

He decided that night that he would paint Noctis; that this reckless young man would be his muse.

He had no idea what a mark Noctis would leave on his soul.


	2. Chapter 2

The water lapped beneath the window of the apartment, a soothing sound. Beyond, Ignis could just pick out the distant murmur of voices along busy streets.

He rose carefully to his feet, moving toward the window. The scent of flowers in the window box, scattered by the breeze, was tantalising; he extended a tentative hand and brushed his fingers over the petals, breathing deep.

Iris had described the flowers, in detail, when she had been potting them for him: had given such life to the blooms that he had almost been able to picture it in his mind’s eye. She had scooped dirt into his hands and let him breathe in the scent, and when he had remarked that it didn’t smell like normal soil, she had giggled with pleasure.

‘That’s because it’s from Lucis,’ she had said. ‘You’re always so good at noticing these things.’

He pushed away from the windowsill, finding his way along the edge of the room toward the kitchen. One tradition that he hadn’t let go of in all this time was his morning coffee — the beans brewed to perfection, the dollop of fresh cream. Each day he would enshroud himself in the coppery scent of it, so rich and intoxicating, and if he closed his eyes he could almost imagine it was another day, another time, a decade ago.

There were days when he woke up in a cold sweat, turning his head frantically about and rubbing at his eyes, as though he might somehow reassemble the haze of light and shadow into a crisp image. Sometimes he remembered sooner than others; sometimes he carried on in this fashion as the horrific episode dragged on, until finally reality came back to him.

Everyone said it would get easier; everyone said he’d get used to it. The truth was, he was afraid that he never would.

He hated the pity, most of all. He couldn’t see it in people’s faces, but he certainly  _ heard _ it when they spoke to him — the soft intake of breath, the tremulous, cautious tone. As though the slightest verbal misstep might set him spiralling; might remind him just how pathetic and wretched he was.

There were those, then, who tried to ignore it. Tried to act as though nothing were wrong, as though he still had his sight. With them, it was almost worse.

He sighed and felt his way across the counter to where the tins of coffee were neatly lined up against the back wall. Iris was precious about putting everything back in its place; when he opened the second tin from the right and inhaled deeply from it, the sweet, nutty scent of the Tenebraean blend filled his nose as he had known it would.

There was an art to making coffee: everything by measure, everything precisely timed. It was one of the few things that had kept him afloat in those first few awful months when he’d been plunged into near-total darkness: a lifeline from his past. A stubborn refusal that no matter how much his life might change, he could still find a shred of normalcy to cling to. He could tell from the crinkle of fabric as Iris swept through his doorway that she was wearing a dress. This was unusual enough for her that it had Ignis raising a brow in surprise — he wondered what the occasion might be.

She answered him before the question ever rose to his lips; they knew each other far too well.

‘There’s a recital in the park this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Won’t you come with me?’

This wasn’t the first such invitation she had extended to him, nor would it be the last. She had been the only thing to drag him out of his spell of reclusion when they had first met, and ever since she had made it her personal duty to ensure his social life was brimming with possibilities.

Some days she was successful in her endeavours; others, his stubbornness won out. He hadn’t yet decided which would prevail today.

‘Before you say no,’ Iris interjected, before he could voice his reservations, ‘it’s a travelling quartet. I think Gladdy said one of the violinists taught you to play?’

‘Dottore Armaugh?’ Ignis blurted.

He caught the shift in the light as Iris nodded her head.

‘That’s the one,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he’d love to catch up with you.’

Ignis tapped his finger against his lip. Gods help him, but as much as he was in no mood to face potential crowds today, he’d regret missing out on the chance to speak with the dottore again after all this time. Weskham Armaugh had given up his tenure at the music college of the University of Altissia a few years earlier to travel the world — who knew when he’d be back in Accordo?

It seemed the fates may have aligned for the better. Allowing a smile to cross his lips, Ignis nodded.

‘I’ll need to change,’ he said. ‘Something suitable for the occasion, as I assume you’ve dressed up.’

Iris’s giggle of triumph filled the room, and filled his heart with joy along with it.

‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll help you pick something out.’

* * *

Ignis hadn’t intended to shave that day — unlike his morning coffee ritual, it was one complex task that didn’t entirely merit the effort — but with Iris’s help, he had a clean-shaven face as he stepped out of his building arm in arm with her.

He was grateful for the tinted spectacles that covered his eyes, shielding him from the formless glare of the sun. It was a glorious day, with just enough of a breeze to serve as a reprieve; as they strolled along, Ignis could smell the intermingled aromas of the city: the sweet scent of the flowers in bloom, the tang of brine in the canals.

It seemed everyone they passed was in a good mood, and it was difficult for Ignis not to allow it to rub off on him in turn.

‘Would you ever consider teaching at the college?’ Iris asked idly, plucking at his sleeve as they walked. ‘You play so beautifully I’m sure they’d be clamouring to hire you.’

Ignis sighed. Clearly this was another of her attempts at distraction; he had to admire her persistence.

Truthfully, it had been music which had brought them together to begin with — Iris had been wandering the streets looking for Gladiolus’s building after a row with her paramour, and the sound of Ignis’s playing had drawn her to his door. She had been stubborn then, too, as she had begged him to teach her; he soon came to learn that there was very little Iris Amicitia did not achieve when she set her mind to it.

‘Perhaps,’ he said softly. ‘Although I’m certain they’d have little trouble finding someone more… qualified.’

He knew, from the little huff that issued from Iris’s lips, that she likely wore an expression of frustration. He had never seen her face, but he imagined at times he could picture it perfectly, so animated was her voice.

‘If you mean someone who has their  _ sight,’ _ she said pointedly, ‘then you know as well as I do that you’re selling yourself short. You play better than anyone you listen to on those records of yours.’

They lapsed into silence; when Ignis didn’t protest, Iris seemed to know better than to press the discussion. She meant well, but there were times when she had a tendency to keep tugging at an issue like a dog worrying at a bone. Thankfully this wasn’t one such occasion.

They neared the park just as the quartet were warming up. As the experimental strains rang out and instruments were tuned accordingly, Ignis felt that familiar rush of excitement thread its way through his veins. There was something magical about music — and to hear it played in person, to feel the electricity in the air, was such an intimate thing to be able to experience.

He was suddenly very much pleased he’d come along after all, whether he spoke to Dottore Armaugh or not.

Quite the crowd had turned out, as it transpired, and they had to slip through the crush of bodies to get anywhere near the gazebo. Altissians rarely refused an excuse for an outing, and Ignis could hardly say he blamed them.

All around, as Iris led him through the throngs, Ignis could hear snippets of conversations crashing down on him like tumultuous waves. For a moment it was all he could do not to panic in the mayhem, jostled about by strangers and able to see little more than the faint haze of daylight, blotted with shadow.

He tried to block it out, to focus instead on the deep, mournful tones of the cello being tuned, and although it seemed a fruitless task they were soon met with a reprieve as Iris led them out to freedom.

‘I didn’t expect it to be so busy,’ she murmured, her voice by his ear as she craned up to speak to him. ‘Is this still all right?’

Even if Ignis thought to say no, he was already there — it scarcely made sense to turn back, especially when Iris had been so eager to bring him in the first place.

Taking a breath, he nodded his head and clutched a little tighter to her arm where it was looped through his.

‘We’re here now,’ he said. ‘Let’s make the most of it, shall we?’

For a while it seemed as though the recital might never start in earnest, but steadily the din of the crowd around them began to taper off as a collective hush fell over the park. There was silence, punctuated only by the burbling of nearby water and the cheery songs of birds, and then the first notes began to play.

Ignis recognised the song instantly; it had been penned by an Altissian composer who had died at a young age of some dreadful disease, alone and penniless. It was an emotive piece, signifying love lost — it brought the listener on a journey from the tentative blossoming of first love, through to the cold reality of loneliness.

He fancied he could recognise his former tutor’s handiwork on first violin, a steady, masculine contrast to the gentler, more submissive second.

It felt as though the notes resonated through Ignis, finding their way into the core of him, until  _ he _ was the lovelorn composer, pouring his emotion into the music. A tightness seemed to grip at his throat, and it was fortunate that the audience was so rapt that they were paying little heed to him as he swallowed hard and lowered his head.

Love unrequited; love doomed to failure. Love so enthralling and profound that it felt as though it had worked its way into the very bones of a man.

He closed his eyes, as though it might somehow shut out the flash of dark hair, of pure blue eyes imprinted upon his mind.

The piece drew to a close, and the crowd exploded into rapturous applause — and Ignis did what he could to clap his hands together, though his blood had run quite cold. He wondered if the others in attendance had been moved so thoroughly by the music; if they could ever truly understand what it meant to have loved and lost.

‘Are you all right?’

Iris’s voice was so hushed he might not have heard it over the noise of the crowd, but her words seemed to echo right through his head. He didn’t dare speak — didn’t dare ask himself that question, for fear of the answer he would uncover.

Instead, he inclined his head slightly and slipped his arm from hers, the better to add to the applause.

The quartet played three more songs — mercifully with nothing quite so distressing as the first piece — then paused for an interval. Before Ignis knew what was happening, Iris was dragging him forward, presumably towards the gazebo, and he could do little more than be led along.

He could hear the musicians speaking about the music, about the crowd, about the weather. He picked out Dottore Armaugh’s voice off to his left, and when it occurred to him that Iris likely didn’t know what the man looked like, the conversation between the players broke off and Ignis heard footsteps click neatly across the wood of the gazebo.

‘My word,’ Weskham said, his rich voice ringing out. ‘Ignis Scientia! What a treat.’

Ignis extended his hand to the other man, where it was promptly taken in a tight grasp and shaken firmly. He remembered the first time they had shaken hands — everyone before the dottore had made Ignis feel as though they were afraid the slightest touch might break him, but Weskham had shown little such restraint.

‘You’ve played beautifully,’ Ignis said. ‘The Amati was quite beautiful. I’d not heard it performed in person before.’

‘We were worried it might be quite a sombre piece to start out with,’ Weskham said. ‘It seems it did the trick of capturing everybody’s attention.’

Ignis nodded thoughtfully.

‘Quite.’

An impatient nudge at his side had him belatedly remembering his manners; hurriedly he placed a hand on Iris’s shoulder and gestured towards his former tutor.

‘Iris, this is Dottore Weskham Armaugh. Dottore, my acquaintance, Miss Iris Amicitia.’

He heard Iris’s snort at his side and couldn’t help but wince. He wondered what manner of sharp remark she was preparing to unleash with her silver tongue.

‘I’d hardly call us  _ acquaintances,’ _ she countered. ‘Ignis taught me to play violin, and we’ve been friends ever since. It was a pleasure to hear his mentor play.’

The pair exchanged a handful of pleasantries — Weskham showed great interest in Iris’s talent, and Iris in turn was eager to hear about Weskham’s travels. Soon, however, the dottore was being called back to the recital by his quartet, and Weskham left with a promise that they should meet properly to chat soon.

‘The music college has given me a post as a guest lecturer for their summer programme,’ Weskham added hurriedly. ‘I’ll be here until September. Plenty of time for chats over coffee, yes?’

Ignis scarcely had time to nod as Iris led him away to return to the crowd.

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ she whispered hurriedly, as they found their earlier spot in the audience. ‘If he’s staying here awhile, he could put in a good word for you with his colleagues!’

Ignis’s stomach lurched unpleasantly. It wasn’t that he hadn’t entertained the notion — certainly, when he’d first taken up tutoring Iris, he’d briefly entertained the notion of adopting it as a career, but one-on-one lessons were much less… intimidating.

Still, he knew he needn’t worry about it just yet; they had only made plans to meet for coffee. Thoughts of sending his life into upheaval could wait for another day.

Iris’s arm was hooked through his again, and she leaned lightly against him as the quartet took up their music once more. From time to time, he could feel her swaying in time to the piece; he focused on her movements, and let them serve as a distraction from such disquieting thoughts that were liable to ruin a perfectly pleasant day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/orchardofbones)

**Author's Note:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/orchardofbones)


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